


Relativity

by coolbyrne



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25106818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbyrne/pseuds/coolbyrne
Summary: A near miss makes Gibbs re-evaluate the elephant in the room, and his decision leads to Jack doing the same. But it all turns right side up in the end.
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs/Jacqueline "Jack" Sloane
Comments: 26
Kudos: 140





	Relativity

**Author's Note:**

> Went for a bit of angst, ended up a bit soft. :) Google M.C. Escher's "Relativity" if you're interested in the print Jack put up in her office.

"- who even goes to the bank anymore?"

He heard her laughter, bright and honest at Bishop's question. But the sound that so often warmed him couldn't melt the ice shard that had stuck in his gut, in his lungs, in his heart, since he had seen her wheeled out on a gurney, under the lights of the Saturday 6 o'clock news. His eyes had lazily looked up from the file across his table, and he would swear he could feel the change in his pupils from mild interest to abject dread. He had never been so happy to have avoided buying the flat screen TV Jack kept pestering him about every time the Army/Navy game came on, because he wasn't sure he could've breathed had he seen her on a larger screen. As it was, he had nearly blacked out from the shallow breaths that barely filled his lungs. The news anchor blandly gave him the details of a bank robbery gone wrong, of 5 people being shot, of further details to follow. His phone had immediately rung, more than half a dozen people looking for those details now, not later. He didn't remember what he told them, he only remembered what Leon told him. 

_She's okay_ , he had said, knowing what he'd want to hear first. _Stray bullet hit her left side, a through and through. Armed civilian panicked. She's in surgery now, but they've assured me that she'll-_

He had snapped his phone shut, not needing nor wanting any other information; he could barely process what Vance had given him. Why had this shaken him in a way that made his heart stop? She had been in danger before- had her life threatened by guns and car bombs. But somehow, he had put that in a neat category of 'hazards of the job', only admitting on that quiet Thursday night that it was a feeble final attempt at distancing himself from the thought of losing her. At work, he fooled himself, he could protect her, make sure the percentages were low, lower than they had been for others he'd lost. And that way, he could have his cake and eat it, too. He could have her close without having to examine just how close he needed her. Seeing her on TV, as just another news bite, swept aside that fallacy, just as his arm had cleared the table in anger and helplessness. 

An hour after Vance’s call, Bishop -the matchmaker, the dreamer, the surrogate daughter- called to give him the room number, to pass along the surgery information, to wordlessly ask where the hell he was. He gave a flat ‘Yep’ to everything spoken and unspoken before abruptly ending the call. And while his team was trying to get access to the bank's camera footage, he had called up a neighbour down the street and asked if he'd use his position as head of security for Citibank to get it for him. He rewatched it on a laptop knowingly supplied by the man, and he watched it as many times as it took him to down a bottle of whiskey. The image was crystal clear, and had it been under other circumstances, he would applaud Brian for his work. As it was, the clarity forced him to see every detail of the hold-up, every moment from the time the 2 gunmen came in to the sickening instant when she hit the floor. She had stood up to one of the men who had been dangerously waving his gun around in the direction of a pregnant woman and had a gash on her forehead from the butt of the weapon for her efforts. Sharing some kind of silent signal with the security guard, she had waited for the perfect moment to disarm one robber, and the guard took out the other. It would have been nothing more had a customer not panicked and pulled out a weapon, firing at the man closest to Jack. The gunman dropped, but not because of the bullet; her chokehold from behind had done the trick. No, the bullet found a different target, an erroneous mark, one that felt like it had hit Gibbs right in the heart. When he saw her go down, he vomited into a nearby pail. It had been after midnight when the cab dumped him outside the hospital and he finally slipped into the stark white room of his biggest fear.

The surgery was only to repair some internal muscle damage; general risks notwithstanding, it was a simple operation. But nothing seemed simple to him, standing there at the foot of her bed, memorizing her face, peaceful in sleep and medication. He irrationally wondered how she could be so calm when everything in him was churning. Had it been anyone else, she'd be at his side, a comforting presence, and he'd gruffly push aside her reassurances even as he was inwardly strengthened by them. But, she wasn’t at his side. She was there, framed by the sterility of a bed and machines that had been the last place for too many people he cared about. The only thing that seemed simple was the decision that he couldn't do this again, could watch someone he loved- the word had caught in his throat, and he took one last look before quietly walking away.

"I know!" The conversation continued, oblivious to his presence. "But I had to go to sign some papers." She waited the perfect pause, then casually added, "I may have bought a house."

"What?" Nick asked, beaming. "You're kidding?"

With a shrug, she replied, "It's been 3 years. I guess the roots are finally taking."

Bishop immediately hugged her, mindful of the injury. "I'm so happy, Jack."

Tim and Nick joined in with hugs and congratulations. Gibbs' heart stopped and his phone rang, saving him from, well, everything. He strode into the bullpen, avoiding eye contact with any curious onlooker, and went directly to his desk to grab his weapon and badge.

"Grab your gear," he intoned.

"Hey," she greeted brightly, oblivious to decisions made while she was away. "Two days in the hospital and you couldn't come visit?"

"Was I supposed to?" He kept his tone flat and his eyes away, but heard the hurt in her voice when she stammered a reply.

"No, I- I guess not." 

Though he may have avoided seeing the repercussions of his words, his team saw them all, and they were silent as she stood stock still. It was Bishop who found her voice first. 

"I want to see pictures of the house when we get back!" Though her interest was genuine, it sounded strained as it tried to cut through the tension. 

"Sure. Sure." The shine had gone off Jack's smile, as much as she clearly struggled to keep it on. "Come up when you have time." She brushed past Gibbs as they started in different directions. "Be safe," she whispered, the automatic response still the first thing on her lips upon his leaving, despite the words that had left his.

Torres dug into his desk for his gear and muttered, "Asshole."

Gibbs's head snapped around, already halfway to the elevator. "What'd you say?"

Nick met the steely stare with his own. "Sorry, you didn't catch that? 'Ass hole'." He used his finger to separate the syllables.

"You're with McGee."

"Oh, great," Bishop muttered.

It was a silent ride all the way down to the garage.

…..

It didn't change much in the car, and that was just fine with Gibbs, and if there was anything positive to take from her breaking the silence, it was that she had lasted as long as she had. 

"So,why _didn't_ you visit Jack?"

He contemplated ignoring the question, but knew the futility of the idea. “She had enough people crowdin’ her.”

Bishop turned her head to look at him, though he pretended to be giving the road his full attention. “Enough people, but not the one she wanted.” When he didn’t reply, she let out an incredulous cough. “Gibbs, she could’ve died.” Still, she received no response. Just when he thought she had dropped the subject, she threw out, “Maybe it would’ve been better if she had died. In the long run, I mean.” As if talking to herself, she continued, “It would’ve been super hard at first, but then you just get all that pain out of the way and you don’t have to worry about having to deal with all those irritating feelings. Almost a blessing in disguise.”

He should’ve known his favourite agent would pick up things from his favourite person; he was well aware they spent off-time together, and a part of him, gone far too long without a wife and daughter, could almost squint enough to blur the lines. So he should’ve known better than to give Bishop the long stretch of silence to use whatever tricks she had picked up from Jack. The words were spoken almost off-handedly, as if she hadn’t just weighed the ‘silver lining’ in the option of Jack dying. He slammed on the brakes, bringing both of them to a whiplash stop. His jaw clenched and his eyes locked in a steely gaze at her profile. She refused to look at him and he knew she was doing it on purpose, not giving him the opportunity to intimidate her into silence or an apology with his glare. 

“You got somethin’ to say, Bishop?” was the best he could come up with, short of a confession he wasn’t willing to give.

She must’ve known it was the only result she was ever going to get, because she, too, clenched her jaw, but in disappointment rather than anger. Tilting her chin forward, she said, “Yeah. Green light.”

It took him a second for the words to make sense. The car horn behind him made them clear.

…..

He somehow managed to avoid her in the 3 days that led up to the weekend, counting each day like a masochistic challenge, figuring if he could just get to those 2 blessed days off, they could start the next week fresh, that this forced distance would be the new norm between them and he could stop comparing the colour of his whiskey in the light to her eyes. But when the weekend came and went and he returned to work on Monday, he berated himself for thinking it would be easy, particularly when he found out she wasn’t there. It was one thing to avoid her, it was another when circumstances kept her from him. Every fear he tried to quash knocked on his door again.

“She had a small setback on the weekend,” Leon told him. “She’s gone in for x-rays; they think the blow to the head might’ve been more than they thought. She had some slight dizzying and blurred vision on Friday. They’re doing concussion tests.”

“They didn’t do the damn tests the first time?” he asked, his sharpness leaving no doubt as to what he thought of the doctor’s oversight.

Leon, aware of the tension in the office, but not finding a place to intervene, tried to buffer Gibbs’ rough reply. “They did preliminary tests that she passed at the time. And obviously, the surgery took precedent.” When he turned to leave, clearly with a mission in mind, Vance stopped him. “I wouldn’t advise it, Gibbs.” He waited for the shoulders to tighten before at last finding the place to intervene. “Considering you’ve made it a point of avoiding her, you’re probably the last person she wants to see. Or needs to see.” He wasn’t surprised when Gibbs left without another word.

…..

“She’s okay. I told her I’d swing by after work with something from Lucatelli’s.” Bishop was holding court with Torres and McGee when Gibbs came down the stairs.

“Why didn’t we see it?” Nick asked. “We should’ve been paying more attention.”

Bishop shook her head. “You know Jack; she’s good at hiding things.” Seeing Gibbs’ appearance, she added, “But that seems to be a common thing around here.”

Tim glanced at his boss, mentor and friend, and caught a wince in soft blue eyes. Asking as much for him as he was for himself, he asked, “What did the doctors say?”

“No sleep for the next 12 hours. No bright lights, no reading to give her eye strain.”

Torres smiled. “She’s gonna hate that. I’ll pop over in an hour to make sure she’s awake.”

“I’ll take the hour after that,” Tim volunteered.

Bishop nodded. “She went in at 9, so we can tag team until then.”

To the surprise of everyone, himself included, Gibbs said, “I’ll take the last hour.”

The offer came from behind his computer where he sat impassively, as if he hadn’t stunned them all into silence. They’d all be aware, painfully so, of his treatment of Jack. Torres was the first to find his voice, and unsurprisingly, was the first to share it.

“I’m sorry, did you start caring again? I must’ve missed that.” He looked at his teammates, a staged mask of confusion over his face. Neither replied, both having an equal measure of shock and curiosity at what he said and what would happen next, because it was obvious that Nick was all in. “So you guys didn’t get the memo either, huh? I get it, though. The flip-flopping happens so fast, it’s hard to keep up.” He was in full flow now. “I mean, it’s perfectly understandable though, right? You love someone, then you push them away, you love them again, then you make them cry in their office where they don’t think anyone will walk in on them. And they wipe away their tears and pretend nothing’s wrong. Happens to me all the time. Oh, wait.” He snapped his fingers a few times, as if trying to jumpstart his memory. “No, that doesn’t happen to me, because I’m a decent human being.”

The entire office stopped breathing. McGee’s relationship with Gibbs would never lead him to confront the man publicly, and Bishop might have enough confidence for a drive-by remark, but her hero-worship of him would always keep her strongest criticisms to herself. But Torres, the newest of the trio and the hottest of heads, had no such handcuffs. He loved and respected with his whole heart open for all to see, and both Bishop and Jack were recipients of his protection. He stood, shoulders straight, unwavering under the spotlight. 

At last, it was Gibbs who broke the deadlock.

“Don’t you have a visit to make?”

Torres blinked twice, the question entirely unexpected. His shoulders relaxed, as did his expression. He glanced at McGee and Bishop who were frozen in their spot. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Then what are you still doin’ here?”

The gruffness was Gibbs’ last attempt at getting control over the situation, and Nick recognized it and forgave it. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. “I’m not even here, boss.” He walked past Bishop, his eyes wide in disbelief, and the air seemed to return to the room.

“Don’t you two have somethin’ to do?”

Tim and Ellie nodded, pretending their paperwork was the most interesting thing in the world.

…..

Her office was cool and quiet at the end of a long day. He dropped onto her couch and closed his eyes, but only for a moment, because he had caught something on the edge of his vision. 

The painting was gone.

The godawful elephant painting, that he bought on a whim and she displayed without hesitation, was gone replaced by a print of something he recognized but couldn’t place. That explained the delivery she received on the previous Friday. He wasn’t the only one who was creating a distance between them. The door opened, saving him from having to consider what that meant.

The visitor paused in the doorway. “Popeye.”

“Grace.”

Slowly entering the room, she asked, “What are you doing here?”

Gibbs looked around the office. “Sittin’. Thinkin’. What are _you_ doin’ here?”

“Doctor/patient confidentiality.” Seeing his raised eyebrow, she offered, “She’s a tough woman, but she’s also just come through a pretty damn traumatic event. She called me to talk about it.”

He frowned at the implication. “PTSD?”

“Would it surprise you? She was in a bank hold up.” Grace shook her head. “I can’t believe I said that. A bank hold up. Who the hell goes to the bank anymore? Besides you, old timer.”

“She’s buying a house.”

Grace’s eyes went wide. “Good for her. Good for you too, huh?” When he avoided her eyes and her question, she sat down beside him. “What have you done now?” The fact he didn’t immediately object to her teasing accusation softened her approach. “So what _are_ you going to do now?”

“Make it right. Somehow.”

She pondered the simplicity in the first part and the uncertainty that threaded through the second, debated the fine line between confidentiality and advice, between comforting him and throttling him. She settled on the one thing that was obvious to everyone but him. “She loves you, you big dolt. God help her.”

He swallowed hard at the ease in her words. “I don’t know-”

“What don’t you know?” she asked, the last of her patience gone. “You don’t know if you love her? If you’re built for a relationship? If you’re an idiot? Because the answer is ‘yes’ to all of those. Especially the last one.”

“Grace.”

She waved away his warning. “That might work with your kids, but you’ll have to try a lot harder with me.” She stood and slapped his thigh and seemed to notice the painting for the first time. Tilting her head from side to side, she said, “Each one more confusing than the last.” She gave him one last word of advice. “Not everything is that complicated, Popeye.”

…..

He sat outside her apartment long enough to see Bishop show up, stay 15 minutes, then leave. He used the excuse of giving Jack a break from visitors to stay in his truck, but that was nearly an hour ago, and he was pretty sure he was 5 minutes away from someone calling the cops. Besides, his own damn fears aside, he was there for a reason. For her.

Despite the pep talk, he hesitated at the door, his resolve faltering ever so slightly. Finally, his knuckles hit the wood.

"Ellie," came the voice on the other side. "Really, I'm fine." 

The door opened just as she finished her reassurance to the woman who wasn't there. Confusion flickered across her face until her brain put two and two together. Coming up with a number she didn't like, she started to close the door until his foot wedged into the gap. Her red-rimmed eyes opened wide, surprised by his move. Surprised and angry. The door swung open again, and he realized his mistake when she slammed it hard against his foot.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed.

"You try and strong arm your way into my home again and I'll break more than your foot."

A door across the hall opened. "Everything okay, dear?"

She pasted on a smile that was good enough to convince the senior. "Everything's fine, Mrs. Watson. Just a co-worker checking in on me."

"Good." She gave Gibbs a once over, then repeated, "Good. She's a hero, you know."

"Yes, ma'am."

Nodding, she said to Jack, "You need anything, you just knock. Understand?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Watson." She held the door wide and Gibbs took the silent invitation before she changed her mind. Once the door closed behind them, she walked into the living room and picked up 2 empty mugs and what looked like a handful of bundled up Kleenex. "Coffee? She'll have her eyes glued to the peephole until her show comes on in 15 minutes and I don't have the energy to answer her questions."

He looked around the apartment, realizing he was seeing it for the first time in 3 years. It was warm and comforting, with splashes of colour in the most unexpected places. It was Jack. “Yeah,” he replied, following her into the small kitchen. With her back to him, he was able to take in her sweatpants and heather grey T-shirt, both soft and loose enough to not bother the injury she was carrying on her left side. Her hair was up and messy, but in a utilitarian way, not in the casual professional way he’d seen it at work. When she reached up for mugs, they hit the counter with a loud thud, and he caught her squeezing the rims to steady her hands. “Everything okay, Jack?”

The one-note laugh was derisive. “I’m tired, Gibbs. Been shot by a gunman, poked by doctors, spent the last 4 days being treated like a leper, and God, I love the team but they won’t let me sleep.”

She identified everyone in her reply except him, but it wasn’t required. Only one person in the office had avoided her since the shooting. He bypassed the exclusion and said, “They’re worried about-”

“Concussion syndrome. Yeah, I know.” Her sigh was her apology to the absent co-workers who cared about her. She poured the coffee, and the spoon seemed unsettlingly loud in the room. “Wouldn’t matter anyway. Can’t sleep even if they’d let me.”

He hummed. "Grace stopped by." Her head turned sharply at the information and all it didn’t say. “She didn’t say anythin’ I couldn’t figure out. Been there enough times.” His eyes, looking anywhere but at her, caught something in the corner. “Was wonderin’ what happened to it.”

Her eyes followed his to the painting. “Thought I’d try something less complicated.” He remembered the confusing print that replaced the elephant, but before he could ask, she said, “I don’t know whether to hang on to it or just let it go.”

He didn’t need to be a psychologist to get the double meaning, the serrated edge catching in his lungs. He watched her hide her expression behind her coffee cup, strands of hair escaping from their flimsy tie to help with the cover. “I think you should hang on to it.”

Her eyes closed at the suggestion. “Did I- did I read it wrong?” 

The rawness in the question, the vulnerability in her voice made him step closer, lifting a hand to her cheek. “No. No, you read it just right.”

She ducked away from his hand and sniffled over a false smile. “Good. At least my professional pride is saved.” Sidestepping him, she made her way to the kitchen and rinsed her cup in the sink. “Mrs. Watson’s show’s on. You can go now. Tell Bishop you fulfilled your duty; I won’t be sleeping for a while.”

He came to stand beside her, placing his mug on the counter so he could put his hand on her back, lean into her hair and whisper, “I’m not leaving.”

She spun around quickly, her eyes blazing even if they were red-rimmed. “Agent Gibbs,” she warned, “if you don’t step back, your sore foot will be the least of your problems.”

How could he tell her that her feistiness only made him love her more? The private confession, the simple truth of the depth of his feelings for her gave him the courage to give it a shot. With his hand reaching up to her jaw, he traced its hard line before whispering, “I’m willin’ to take the risk.” Just as her words about the painting held two meanings, his also offered something deeper; he wasn’t just willing to take the physical risk, he was willing to risk everything.

“Gibbs.”

Her whisper, half hope, half fear, brought his lips to her forehead, resting gently on the bandage. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He moved to her cheek and made the same vow before laying in on her lips. A soft whimper escaped and he caught it with a kiss that had been 3 years in the making. The spark was lit and he was more than happy to douse it with gasoline, pulling her close with his hands in her hair just as she ran her palms up his back to curl around his shoulder blades. The whimper became a moan, sighs coupling together as their bodies pressed closer, their mouths discovering each other, claiming each other. In unspoken agreement, their arms slowly switched position, bringing her fingers through his cropped hair, allowing his hands to circle around her waist. He lifted her up on her tiptoes, drawing her arms onto his shoulders while he pulled her in tighter. It was only when he felt her jerk under his palms that his mind allowed a sliver of clarity. 

Immediately, he drew back to look down at her injury, to chastise himself for forgetting. She forgave him with a soft nuzzle against his nose. 

“It’s okay.”

He accepted the forgiveness, but forced his mind to clear. “We should get you to bed.” Her laughter, a sound he hadn’t heard in over a week, made it hard to not follow through with the unintentional double entendre. He settled for a kiss, this one slow and languid. Feeling her arms rise up again, her fingers tracing the tips of his ears, so naturally, like she had been doing it for ages made him mentally berate himself for all the time wasted, made him thank his lucky stars she had stuck around as long as she had.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised, echoing his own words, reading his mind. “Except to bed.”

He grinned against her lips. “Then get goin’. I’ll shut everything down.” 

She dropped another kiss on his lips before turning towards the small hall that he assumed led to her bedroom. He clicked off the living room light, then the kitchen, checked the lock, then followed her trail. The room was cool and quiet, the shades pulled in preparation for the morning sun, even if the last few days, devoid of sleep, didn’t require it. The bed was larger than he would have thought, especially seeing her curled up small. Her eyes were shut, though a deep frown line cut between her brows. When he reached out to smooth it calm, her hand came out from under her chin to curl around his wrist. 

“Stay?”

“Told ya I would, Sloane.” Her smile was everything and it easily drew him into the bed, flush against her, arms around her. Her smell clouded every thought, banished any hesitation that bothered to linger. Putting his words into her action, she molded into his chest and threw her left arm around his waist, hooking her leg across his. It had been almost a decade since he had shared a bed, yet like everything else he was discovering about Jack, she made it feel like they had been doing it forever. Or maybe it just felt like he had been waiting that long. Soft fingers found their way under his shirt and he was just about to admonish her for the ticklish reconnaissance when he heard a light snoring against his chest. He fought his own sleep for a little longer, taking the time to savour the feeling, to memorize the moment.

_The first of many._

A sleepy snort into his shoulder appeared to agree with his vow, and he smiled.

…..

-end.


End file.
